Mornaundumë the Mordorian Lass
by A Story-Teller
Summary: The Battle of the Pelennor is over, yet Aragorn is about to discover a Mordorian unlike he’s ever encountered before. A woman in the service of Sauron, who may prove a far deadlier foe to the Elessar than he will foresee. AragornOC
1. Dark Past

**Disclaimer:** The only character I own here would be Mornaundumë, everything else was created by a mind greater than mine, namely JRR Tolkien.

_**Italics** – Later on in the story are used for flashbacks_

**Summary: **The Battle of the Pelennor was over, but the greater part of evil had by no means been vanquished along with it. As Aragorn and the Fellowship march bravely on toward the Black Gate of Mordor, and away in Cirith Ungol, a hobbit is held prisoner, the Black Land is again stirring for war. And as Mordor's sinister agents roam freely in the lands, Aragorn is about to discover a Mordorian unlike he's ever encountered before. A woman in service of Sauron, who may prove a far deadlier a foe to the Elessar than he would foresee.

**Note**: This is my first fanfic, so reviews would be very nice and helpful to me.

**Enjoy!**

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**Mornaundumë - the Mordorian Lass**

By** A Story-Teller**

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_Chapter 1___

Masked by a Great Shadow, dark figures could barely be glimpsed stalking through the haunted city of Minas Morgul, like ants. One such figure, taller than most, was departing from that city in great speed. The last lingering shadows of pale glowing green washed over her face as she sped away from her home. Her name was Mornaundumë and in Mordor, a land so dark and arrogant in its pride, a woman such as she was an exception that made orcs gape.

Mornaundumë's long sweeping black hair matched that of her steed, a snorting black pure thoroughbred stallion that was being pushed almost past his endurance. Now especially Time was of the essence, but in Mordor there never was enough of it, she thought angrily. Her temper, now that was both a weapon and a hindrance to her. Nowadays it seemed so barely below the surface so even a choice remark from a random orc was sometimes all that was needed for it to erupt. But while she was good at spilling the blood of a few orc scavengers now and then that made her lose her patience, her variety of words did not always go down well for her with the Top Ones. Her burnt and blackened hands that held the reins of her steed were proof of that. Not a single inch of her soft skin remained on her fingers or palms. That torture had taught her a lesson. Mornaundumë let out a ragged breath in a sigh. It had not always been so...

With Minas Morgul fading into the distance, Cirith Ungol still shrouded by early morning mist ahead, Mornaundumë allowed her mind to wander....

She had been entered into the service of the Land of Shadow as a girl, by whom she did not know. At first she had only been a light entertainment to the masters and captains of the land. As an accident, one day it happened that one such captain had found her displeasing. His sword had been within arm's reach of Mornaundumë and she took no more thought to it. She killed that man before he could even let fall the first blow.

Since then, her little skill with the blade was given the chance to improve when people in high places saw her wild cruel nature, perfect, for such a heartless land to control. Her status in Mordor quickly rose; orcs were given to her as she achieved the rank of captain herself, her own party of marauding orcs, with which she could order as she pleased. And in the first few years with this newly acquired band, Mornaundumë had benefited tremendously from the numerous successful pillages on disadvantaged orcish scavengers, wandering Gondorians and other similar bands of orcs they had ambushed along the way.

It was during those few, yet eventful and enlightening years, that Mornaundumë made herself known throughout the land. She was always moving, never stopping in one area for too long. Thus she learned the lay of her homeland so thoroughly that it was often remarked that she saw the world like from the eyes of an eagle, without the aid of a map she could navigate her way from place to place and not for once drift astray from a plotted course. She would not have had it any other way. In her heart, Mornaundumë was a natural traveller. The tired and often disgruntled orcs that she commandeered on her unrelentless wanderings moaned constantly about this ranger of a captain that led them. But since orc infantry are always needing to be replaced and the fact that Mornaundumë herself was creating a rather fierce reputation meant that any rebellious grumblings never led to anything that dramatic.

Always along her travels, Mornaundumë had more than orcs for company, her steed, an ill-tempered black stallion that matched her character precisely, was also made part of the band's entourage. The beast had originally come out of western country, a runaway, she was told, that had been broken in upon arrival in Mordor. There, at some rotting stables that held the little to nothing Mordorian cavalry, Mornaundumë had taken one look at the creature and taken a liking to the idea of having a renegade animal, with a story to tell, at the reins. To a girl, with the same little to nothing background, hidden past, the idea appealed to her very much. The horse had been reserved originally for some higher ranking captain, but the horse was never again to be later found and identified when the following dusk, the stables were found in disarray, orc blood on the ground, but bodies nowhere to be found. So the horse came into Mornaundumë's life and travels. It was her way of thinking was that the beast should learn the territory as well as she, and then decisive agreement and some sort of understanding could exist between the two.

Over the following passing years with her horse companion, Mornaundumë had visited all sorts of places, witnessed all kinds of brutality, and it had all been deeply imbedded in her psyche. So far gone now, was the timid human slave girl she used to be. She had grown up and made her enemies, things that no Mordorian officier is without. Her heart had grown black beyond measure, and killing was all she knew. As a woman, she had had to come to terms with the fact that forever she would be sneered down upon by her betters. Though she fiercely maintained a reputation as great as any male commander, the female captain would have to live with the sexist issues all her life. However, even important people couldn't dismiss her for long. When Mornaundumë had single-handedly tracked down and re-gained an escaped elf prisoner of Barad- Dúr, important people really had to sit up and take notice. She became a commander not long after, no less than of her residence in Mordor, Minas Morgul, the haunted citadel of the Ringwaiths. The Ringwaiths...now they were Top Ones that held considerable authority over practically every Mordor inhabitant, regardless of their status or rank....

Her horse's snort brought her out of her thoughts. They had arrived. Nimbly, Mornaundumë slid down from the saddle and tied the reins to an outcropping of stone. She did not pause, but strode briskly into the tower and garrison of Cirith Ungol. There to meet with some orcish captain.

As she passed under the archway, her eyebrows rose in disbelief. The hallway was littered with the filthy carcasses of orcs! Up ahead, she thought she could see one familiar orc standing amongst the dead, no doubt raiding fallen comrades. Mornaundumë's temper rose and with difficulty she subdued it.

'Captain Shagrat! I have come in answer to your report. But please, do tell why I arrive to find Ungol in such a state...'

The orc captain Shagrat stiffened as he heard that voice, cold and heartless it was. His crooked legs trembled as he turned round to address his senior officer.

'Ah, M'lady Mornaundumë, well, as to why Cirith Ungol receives you in such welcome, well I...I mean to say...the lads....'

Mornaundumë sneered down at the orc captain, the distaste evident in her face.

'Never mind officer, to business. Lugbúrz will not be apleased, Shagrat, if the reports sent to me are true and the halfling prisoner has escaped. '

The orc Shagrat pursed his lips, scratched a wart on his thigh.

'Neither will them Nazgûl be pleased, m'lady, but what's to be done about that? My lads have landed us right in the thick of it this time. It was this pretty coat of the prisoner's that done it, see? As soon as they saw that silver the swords just came slinging out and...'

"Excuses captain. Lugbúrz is not one to accept them neither.'

Mornaundumë's thick black travelling cloak rippled around her feet as she began to pace up and down.

'What we need, is a detachment patrol right away. This prisoner must be hunted down, he must not escape. Your lads, captain, have you any of them to spare?'

Now the orc was in a dilemma, dull eyes opened in shock and words came stuttering out in a babble. Mornaundumë held up a hand for silence.

'I think I get it, so, your lads when they saw this silver and the swords just came slinging out they knocked a few heads off didn't they? And it wasn't just a few as it turned out in the end was it? Honestly, you orcs are filth beyond any of us...'


	2. The Ringwraith

Chapter 2

Mornaundumë went outside for a good venting of her anger. She ran to her black, brave stallion and drew her fingers roughly through the thick mane, cursing wildly. It was not Shagrat but she who would get the ultimate blame. Cirith Ungol had recently been given to her as her first trial. If she was sufficient enough at keeping out the enemies of Mordor from the watchtower she would be moved on to higher, better garrisons. But it was here, Ungol, where she had stumbled in her considerable rise to power and Mornaundumë knew what followed. She knew how quickly disgraced officers fell back to becoming just some more light entertainment to the troops or worse, an example to be made of for the Mordorian army. Mornaundumë beat her fists helplessly against her steed. The horse whinnied in sorrow for his master, feeling her fear and anger.

It was then when Mornaundumë could just taste the bitterness of defeat, when out of the ever darkening sky, a Fell Beast screeched at the commands of is master and came wheeling out of the sky, to swoop low round the tower of Ungol and land neatly outside its garrison.

The Nazgûl, one of the mighty Ringwraiths, a master of Mordor, stood up high in his stirrups sniffing the air, head flickering from side to side. Mornaundumë felt her horse grow impatient by her side. She hurriedly muttered snatches of the black speech to calm him and the stallion's initial fears subsided. Mornaundumë herself took a deep breath, and then gave her full attention to the Ringwraith so as to he could see her. The head paused its snake-like swaying and underneath the ragged black hood there came a sharp intake of breath.

It struck Mornaundumë odd then, that herself, an active commander from the haunted city, would find the local occupant that frightening up close and personal. Fear surrounded this Mordorian equivalent of a spy in the sky like a dark unseen vapour. It was this unspoken fear that these demonic Nazgûl cast about them that was keeping her in line and she bitterly knew and resigned herself to it. Mornaundumë hated that understanding; the hand that rested on the hilt of her sword lay quivering in a suppressed combination of uncertain emotions. But her fear overruled her anger and her sword never left its scabbard. The Black Rider, spoke to her in his piercing whistling screech.

'Commander of Minas Morgul..._woman_... make your report.'

For a moment, Mornaundumë thought she wouldn't have the strength to answer. But eventually, her precious pride pulled her through.

'From the beginning? A halfling as you know, has recently been taken captive along the Ephel Dúath of our western borders. He was immediately confiscated of all weapons, and is now imprisoned here in Ungol.'

Mornaundumë licked her dry lips before continuing, gazing upward she tried to meet the Nazgûl's stare,

'There is a halfling, I have reason to believe, that carries a certain 'revelation' of the War of the West with him. An elvish weapon, I have been told. Well, of course, I have had our prisoner searched for such an item, but...'

Suddenly Mornaundumë paused. At the mention of this certain 'revelation' the Nazgûl had gone very still. His rattling breathing had quickened. And before she had time to react, the Ringwraith in one fluid movement had dismounted his steed and was striding straight towards her, tattered robes billowing with every stride.

'Thou have the halfling imprisoned here? I have come to collect him...'

Mornaundumë lost the thread of her thought. The fear was coming at her again, and this time it was going to consume her. She took an involuntary step backwards. Trembling, she gritted her teeth as her hand inched toward to her sword.

'My Lord! Surely you would want...news of the results that were gathered from the prisoner's interrogation before you would take him away...'

''Ach! The Great Tower can gather all from the mind of him that needs to be known. Should it take even the slow torment of years, to get us our answers then so it shall be. But for thou, do thy service, woman of Mordor! Bring before me the prisoner, so my journey need not be wasted!'

It was pure terror that stopped Mornaundumë's mouth. Dumbly she nodded. Slowly she turned back towards Cirith Ungol, and in a last attempt to keep her pride, walked solemnly back into the garrison. Though she would have liked nothing better in that moment than to have run. Run out of Mordor, run away far into the west, to have run and run, and never have looked back.


	3. Lifelines

_Chapter 3  
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Shagrat was waiting for her as Mornaundumë entered Cirith Ungol for the second time. That is, the orc was still there, and his pockets and arms were bulging with stolen loot, but he looked as though he might have just been about to leave.

'M'lady! Well I... I thought you were leaving...'

Mornaundumë said nothing. She stepped precariously over the bodies that were strewn all over the floor as she made her way instead to Shagrat. As she reached the orc captain, she suddenly drew her sword. Shagrat, dropping what stolen possessions he had resting in his arms, bolted for the exit, but he was too slow.

Sharply, Mornaundumë pulled her still ringing sword up to the orc's unprotected neck. He stopped dead still in his tracks. She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

'Really, you thought you would leave me so easily, when there is a Nazgûl waiting outside?'

Shagrat clenched, his eyes darting about wildly. Not allowing him to speak, Mornaundumë silenced him with a threatening tickle with her sword on his throat.

'You're not leaving yet, you maggot, I'm going to need your help. Your co-operation, you know what I mean? Eh?'

She gave Shagrat another warning tickle with her blade. Rivulets of black blood were now dripping freely from his throat. He nodded.

'Good. Now, that Nazgûl I mentioned earlier? He says he's come for the prisoner, the halfling prisoner, that you and your cursed boys lost...'

She spat at the ground by the orc's feet.

'But we haven't actually got the prisoner to deliver him, as you well know, so we're going to have to satisfy him in some other way, we're as good as dead if his trip out here proves pointless... I need to know what became of the prisoner's articles, his confiscated possessions. The 'pretty silver coat' I heard you mentioning earlier, where is it now?'

Mornaundumë lessened the pressure her blade had on his throat. Shagrat coughed on his own blood as he tried to speak.

'I don't... I wasn't... it was Gorbag, m'lady, curses the filthy rebel! He started it all. He tried to pinch that very same pretty shirt for himself, he did. But o ho! I got him in the end, I did. Stuck him like a pig...'

'Yes, all very interesting, _captain_, but not the answer I was looking for...'

'Nah! I was just getting to it! Anyways after I stuck him, there's the strange thing that happened, see? A halfling came charging at me, a rat with a bloody-handed elf light in his hand, if ever I saw one. Well, I didn't stop to think, no, the cruel stars of the terrible elf-countries hurt my poor eyes so... so I'

But Mornaundumë had silenced him again.

'You saw a halfling? The same one we had taken captive? Or... or a _different_ halfling? Speak! If there are two of them running about loose in Mordor... that would explain some things!'

Caught up in her shock at Shagrat's statement, Mornaundumë forgot just how hard she was leaning her sword against his throat. Her hands, trembling with suppressed anxiety, began to lose purchase on the heavy hilt. Shagrat's eyes widened then, as he opened his mouth to try and answer her, he mumbled something feebly before his whole body began to convulse. Shaking, he gave one last horrible choking sound, retching black blood that splattered all over Mornaundumë's face and robes. Then he fell before her feet, eyes staring vacantly up to her, his throat slit. Mornaundumë dropped her own sword in disgust.

Cursing her clumsiness, she bent down and picked it up again, wiping it clean on the folds of her robes, and staring back angrily at the dead orc at her feet. He had just been about to tell her something equally important as the news of a second halfling, she was sure. More on the pretty silver shirt, and where it had gone after Gorbag and Shagrat had begun to fight over it. Her eyes wandered regretfully down the carcass, ... and then suddenly her gaze was caught.

The stolen loot, bundles of various sophisticated orc gear and implements, that Shagrat had prepared to make off with, had not been the only things he had hoped to get away with. Where it had been dropped at his feet, and now lay crushed beneath his body, Mornaundumë saw a bundle of rags, tied up like a sack. A sudden flash of silver had alerted her to its presence. Kicking the body aside, she stooped down quickly, picking the heavy bundle up. The dirty rags fell away in her hands and Mornaundumë found herself looking not only at the halfling's confiscated mithril coat, but also his grey elf cloak and Westernesse blade; the dagger that had been given to him by Tom Bombadil of the Old Forest. Mornaundumë closed her eyes, clutching the lifelines tightly to her chest. Now to face the fear again...

Outside, the Nazgûl waited, as quiet and unmoving as ever. He made it look as if no time had passed at all, Mornaundumë thought, as she made her way back silently down the steps, to the courtyard of Cirith Ungol. As she passed by her black horse that still stood tethered up, sweating and tossing his head wildly in fear at just feeling the Nazgûl's presence, she pitied the poor, brave beast. If only he understood how I feel now, she thought. Never taking her eyes of the Ringwraith, Mornaundumë advanced slowly forward. The Nazgûl's hooded head turned in her direction as he heard her soft footsteps.

'Woman... Thou hath returned...'

He took a step forward. Mornaundumë winced. The term the Nazgûl kept giving her was making her feel uncomfortable. Almost like she was... helpless prey before him. Mornaundumë did not like that thought at all.

'But thou have not brought me the halfling?' Red eyes flashed for an instant from under the hood, and the Ringwraith put his hand to his sword. Mornaundumë shuddered.

'I beg your pardon, my Lord but I... I cannot be held to blame for the prisoner's disappearance...'

'Thou art a commander of Minas Morgul! One of my house would dare lose such a valuable person, and speak to me thus?'

A terrible light flashed from under the folds of that hood this time, and Mornaundumë found herself being held to that gaze. Then the Nazgûl screamed. Mornaundumë fell to her knees, her hands clasped to her ears, and her own screams mingling with the piercing shriek that wrenched at her soul. Dimly above the blanket of paralyzing terror that was sweeping over her, she saw that the Nazgûl had drawn his sword, and lifting it up in a pincer-like movement, was striding resolutely toward her. Like Death himself, advancing; her executioner. She laid her hand on the bundle of rags holding their precious bundle within. With one last effort, she threw the bundle before her, its contents spewing out before her as she crouched on her knees, cradling her head.

The Nazgûl paused. Glancing at the halfling's possessions flung out before him, he slowly lowered his sword. If any mortal could have seen his true face now, they would have seen that he was smiling. With an almost regretful air, he sheathed his weapon then, reaching out an armoured hand, he roughly pulled up Mornaundumë's downcast face. He laughed at her barely concealed tears. Mornaundumë tried to look away but his hand held her chin firmly.

'Look at me woman. Look and see that thou hath been spared, look and see that thou have been blessed, see how thee hath escaped the unbearable finality of thine own death.'

Mornaundumë looked up confused, seeing nothing other than all-consuming darkness and bitter emptiness. Then, as a sudden coldness swept from her shoulder where he struck her, she understood. The Ringwraith held up the already dissolving Morgul blade before her eyes. Gasping, her eyes opening in shock, Mornaundumë raised her hand, pulling the wraith's hand away from her chin. She fell backwards, staggering she rose to her feet, her sword suddenly in her hand. But the Nazgûl had already turned, and was preparing to leave. With the halfling's cloak, dagger and coat back in the bundle of rags in his arms, he was striding unerringly back to his Fell Beast who crouched by, waiting.

Mornaundumë stumbled over to her horse; fumbling slightly with the knot she finally had the stallion loose. Dragging herself up into the saddle, she watched with growing dread, the Nazgûl, as he left with the prisoner's possessions for the Great Tower. Then, her vision starting to pitch strangely out of focus, Mornaundumë urged her horse, her one constant companion on. There was only one route for her to take now, if she wished to escape her fate.


	4. What have your own done to you?

**Note:** Alright, some romance will be coming up soon, I had to have a good, lengthy introduction to my main character! And there's more yet to be revealed about her past. Who was she? Where did she come from before being entered into Mordor's service? All that's coming up. Honestly I didn't want some ditzy, two-dimensional character possibly taking Arwen's place, (and before anyone asks, I do like the original pairing of Aragorn/Arwen).

One last thing, if anyone is reading this, and taking pleasure in doing so PLEASE SEND ME A REVIEW! Otherwise it might just take me a bit longer in getting new chapters posted... nah, I wouldn't really blackmail you! Be kind. Go on. Give me your thoughts

**NEW NOTE**: (as of 28/10/06) Chapter has been 'upgraded', some rewrites

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Chapter 4 

Light was filtering through the darkness as a darkly clad figure astride a horse came galloping along the west road. Mornaundumë's body slumped in the saddle. Just trying to fight against the darkness inside that was slowly beginning to consume her, was exhausting her to the point that she couldn't sit straight, let alone ride properly. But even though she did not have control of the reins, her stallion had not needed her direction to understand where she wanted to go. Such trust had built up between the two, as they had traversed across the land of Mordor together. Across the land they both knew so well.

Where they were headed now, however, was going to be unknown territory for both of them. Mornaundumë's horse was only following an instinct long denied to him, he was running back into the west from where he had come.

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The Host of the West was marching out of the gates of Minas Tirith in full strength and heart. The Battle of the Pelennor Fields had taken its toll in the high number of casualties; but of the survivors there were none who would have rather stayed behind. Aragorn, commander of Gondor's forces, rode slightly ahead of the rest.

This was it, he knew. This was the last stand, as it were. Mordor had, for far too long, strived for the dominion of men, of elves, dwarves, and hobbits. He had fought the war against that land all his life, and now within the coming week the war would be coming to an end, one way or another. It gave Aragorn a sense of peace; that thought. No more waiting. No more waiting for a lot of things…

'Forward! No, not that way, you silly creature… no laddie, I can handle this! Now, forward… Why isn't it moving now?'

Aragorn twisted around in his saddle. He couldn't help but smile. It looked as though Legolas had allowed Gimli to take the reins again, an unwise decision. The dwarf had never managed to gain the trust of a horse since first setting eyes on one as they had entered into Rohan all those months ago. The elf, who had snatched the reins off from Gimli in front of him, to keep the horse moving in line with everyone else, looked tired, but a smile was on his face all the same. Aragorn shook his head, chuckling pleasantly.

'You have to be gentle with him, Gimli… you're expecting too much of the poor beast. Loosen your hand, soften your word, you'll be amazed at the difference it will make.'

Legolas looked up, smiling gratefully. Gimli merely grunted.

'Easy for you to say, up there in front, but all right. You hear that horse? We don't like each other's company, but I'm going to do as Aragorn says. If I do that, will you…_walk_ forward, like a good steed?'

Gimli patted the horse's neck, almost fondly. Legolas handed him back the reins encouragingly. Aragorn turned to look out towards the eastern horizon again.

He frowned. A lone Mordorian Rider was coming charging toward them.

From behind him, the allied Rohan and Gondor archers were drawing their bows, prepared to end this servant of the Black Land's life. But Aragorn was curious. Raising a hand, the bows were lowered. With his Anduril at his side, Aragorn rode ahead of the Host, commanding them to wait, so he could address this visitor personally.

Drawing close, Aragorn saw straight away that the Rider was of no threat. The Rider's body lay unconscious, slumped over his own horse. The horse himself seemed tired, though he tried hard not to show it. Aragorn realised he must have carried his master all through the night to get here. Thoroughbred he must be… too good for any Mordorian.

Aragorn brought his own horse down to a trot as the Thoroughbred did likewise. Well-trained was he, for he seemed to understand clear enough that Aragorn wished no harm to either of them, that he only wanted to speak with the Mordorian Rider.

Aragorn bit his tongue as he saw the state of that Mordorian. He was truly a mess; his skin seemed pale; drained of all blood almost, his long hair was matted and coarse. Dark robes, the colour of his allegiance, flapped around his body, mere rags. One arm was clutching feverishly, the hair of his steed, the other hung limp down the horse's neck. Aragorn frowned, unsheathed his sword and brought the point of it to press on the skeletal fingers.

"Servant of Sauron… what business do you have here?" He murmured gruffly.

Mornaundumë, stimulated by the rough pressure on her fingers, groaned as her mind began to wake up. As she lifted her head, Aragorn saw he had made a mistake in thinking the Mordorian was a man. Suddenly his inhibitions towards the situation seemed to gradually but entirely melt away.

This was a tortured woman before him. Although Aragorn couldn't understand the reasons that had brought a Mordorian woman to him in this state he knew what he felt he should do next, regardless of the circumstances.

So it was Mornaundumë woke to see the bemused eyes of the Elessar awkwardly smiling down on her.

'What have your own done to you…' he muttered sadly.

A tear was falling from Mornaundumë's cheek though she was not aware of it. Aragorn continued to smile at her.

'Are you fit to ride, missy?'

He brushed away her tears with the back of his hands. Mornaundumë remained silent. Speech seemed beyond her for the moment, she felt numb, in both her body and heart. Aragorn sighed.

'All right then, come with me. Do not fear; you will not be harmed. I will make sure that no hurt will befall you.'

It took a while to figure out what he meant and then Mornaundumë tried feebly to pull away, but she was weakened from her wound and Aragorn's grasp was firm. He lifted her gently from her horse and put her in front of him in the saddle, as easy as if she were only a doll in his arms. Mornaundumë's thoroughbred did not even flinch. Aragorn grinned, whistling an unfamiliar tune; the two horses followed him back to where the Host stood by waiting.

A strange, almost unpleasant silence had befallen the men. Aragorn looked up to see the faces of the Rohan and Gondor troops, and his four friends unusually grave. Legolas, in particular, was giving him a most disapproving stare. Aragorn rolled his eyes, shaking his head. He knew what he was doing.

'So this Mordorian then, is he a messenger or a friend? Did he come here to threaten us perhaps?'

A chorus of raucous laughter followed this. The silence had been broken. Aragorn gave the Gondorian who had spoken out an angry glance. Raising his voice he challenged,

'Does the Black Land send the helpless wounded into Gondor's power? This _woman_ from Mordor may well have lost any of her ties to the Dark Lord! And while she remains clinging to life she _will be_ under my protection. Let the first who would kill a defenceless woman come forth now and declare it, to me and to all as witness!'

Mornaundumë panicked, struggling to escape. Aragorn squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. But no man came forward.

'No? I am pleased, I confess, to think no soldier of Gondor, or Rohan would instantly kill a wounded woman, even if she were an enemy…' Aragorn spoke sarcastically

Mornaundumë ceased to struggle, these men were soft hearted she realised; they wouldn't kill her. Yet as her bleary vision picked out the faces of some of the men, she could see real hatred in those eyes. There was hate there she would love to challenge if she had but the strength. It made her both angry and frightened.


	5. Gossip

**Lykairo:** Thanks for the first review! I agree, there aren't enough, I don't think I've found any Aragorn/OC fanfics on the site. If you've found another, please send me an email, it's in my profile.

Anyway, here's chap 5

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_Chapter 5_

'Gandalf! May I have a word with you for a moment, please.'

He caught the wizard by the arm, muttered some inaudible words in his ear. Gandalf remained silent, but his expression spoke volumes. He handed Shadowfax over to the care of a Rohirrim that was passing by and quickly followed the Gondorian messenger, who carried on speaking as they walked.

'He told me to take you straight to him, sir. '

A day had passed since Aragorn had sworn to protect the Mordorian Lass. The Host, at Aragorn's commands, had set up camp at the feet of the Morgul-vale. The men were well on the way to their rendezvous with the dark forces of Mordor at the black gates of the Morannon. It was there where the deciding battle for the freedom of Middle-Earth would be fought. Across the campsite, outside the numerous tents that had been pulled up, activities in the preparation for war were taking place.

Archers were re-stringing their bows, counting their quivered arrows; every shot would matter in the upcoming battle. Swordsmen were sharpening their blades, some at the wheel, and others with special stones that they ran across their swords' and daggers' bladed edges. Elsewhere the cavalry, while not attending to their weapons, were attending to their horses, feeding them up, and checking their riding equipment. Amidst the busy soldiers, Gandalf strode, specifically, to one tent in particular. As he passed, men looked up from what they were doing, nudged their neighbour and pointed excitedly. The white wizard's fame had spread far throughout the ranks. As the leading commander behind the Battle of the Pelennor, it was he who had defended Minas Tirith from the dark wave of Mordorian forces. It was he who had brought courage to the men of Gondor in their darkest hour. He was the White Rider, scourge of the Nazgûl, hope to men.

Gandalf stooped to enter the Elessar's elaborately decorated tent. Acknowledging the King with a nod, Aragorn waved the formality away. The Maiar spirit smiled. He knew the man was, in his heart, still a Ranger. He wasn't yet used to the splendour of the ornate furnishings that he lived in, he was still uncomfortable with the reverence that his very friends were expected to show him.

Candles in golden holders cast their light, dispelling the shadows in the tent. In a corner, Mornaundumë the Mordorian lay on Aragorn's bed. Beside her, on a table, a bowl of steaming water had been set. The smell of burning athelas leaf hung thick and refreshing in the air. Gandalf sighed. He didn't need to guess to know why Aragorn had called him.

'How is she?' Concerned eyes glittered under bushy raised eyebrows.

Aragorn took a deep breath.

'We discovered the Morgul wound in time; the Shadow, I think, is departing from her. I put forth all such power and skill I possess in the healing. But I am not Elrond.'

'But you share the same power as he, and you have saved her.'

'Yes, and so I must have, Gandalf...'

A long silence followed, both were watching Mornaundumë sleeping. The candles' glow was casting strange patterns over her face. Conflicting shadow and pale light washed over her features. At length, Aragorn whispered softly,  
'Who'd have thought it? The very land she served dealt her a blow that would have killed her.'

'Is it so hard to believe? Servants of that land are just what they are; servants. Servants to Sauron's will. Loyalty has no meaning. Which is partly the reason that brought her here to you now.'

'Gandalf... whatever she chooses to do when she awakes, whichever side she chooses to ally herself with, I want her to do freely, without hindrance or prejudice. I know some of the men disapprove of me taking her in like this...'

'You are the King!'

'Yes... I know.'

Aragorn sighed, putting his head in his hands. Gandalf walked over and sat down beside the King, a worried frown on his face. So much had been expected of the man, in such a short space of time. Whereas before Strider had had nought to look after except himself, Elessar was now finding himself responsible for the lives of thousands. Gandalf's frown deepened. He knew just how cruel the tides of fate could be.

'Do not think one moment longer on what may have been Aragorn,' he said, as if reading the King's mind, 'whether to their liking or not, the choice has already been made.'

Aragorn nodded, his gaze moved from the wizard to Mornaundumë, and he saw Gandalf looking in the same direction.

'And who knows...' Gandalf mused, smiling, a touch of his old humour returning, 'the pity that you showed the Mordorian could just rule the fate of many...'

* * *

Pippin wandered aimlessly about the campsite. Swinging around his little sword, in his mind he was already fighting the Mordorians, every empty swipe cutting swathes in the Dark Lord's ranks. So caught up was he in his fantasy, he wasn't even aware of the amused glances that were being shot his way, of the men who were having to dodge aside as he passed. With his tongue sticking out in extreme concentration, he was just finishing off a mountain troll, when Gimli called him over.

'And if you don't stop swinging that dagger around, I'll have your share of the soup myself!' He added threateningly.

The hobbit gave a startled yell and came charging at once towards the camp where Legolas and Gimli had a little fire going, with a stew of some sort bubbling noisily in a pot.

The dwarf grumbled as he moved over to allow Pippin some room by the fire. Legolas smiled and passed around some wooden bowls as Gimli pulled out a few chunks of bread from his pack to complete the meal. The trio ladled their bowls up to the brim, with Gimli complaining about why Pippin who was the smallest still got the same amount as he, and the hot soup warmed them against the fierce cold of the Morgul-vale.

Presently Legolas nodded in the direction of the darkening eastern sky.

'A full day's march towards the east, but will He have taken the bait?'

Pippin followed the elf's gaze, munching on a piece of bread; he stood up and walked in that direction. He was thinking, and suddenly Merry's words were coming back to him: _don't you understand, they think you have the Ring!_

'Well, they can't have missed me!' He said cheerfully.

'Oh! So now...' Gimli made as if to protest, before Pippin continued, 'but I'm the one they're after, aren't I!'

Gimli stopped mid-sentence. The elf raised an eyebrow.

'Well if you want to put it that way... ' He mumbled, ashamed, then turned back to the warmth of the fire. 'Don't stray too far' he called after Pippin in afterthought, 'the sun will be down soon.' Pippin nodded once, and was soon lost again amid the bustling soldiers.

_They can't have missed me, I'm the one they're after aren't I?_ Pippin whirled his sword aggressively toward the east, a Gondorian ducked just in time. _And they must keep coming after me; I'm the diversion. I'm the one keeping Frodo and Sam safe..._

He stopped just short of stabbing one of the horses, and accidentally struck it's Rohirrim master on the kneecap instead. Pippin cringed as the man yowled in pain.

'Who did this? If he is looking for a fight...' The man grabbed the hobbit by the arm, a fist raised. Pippin closed his eyes, but the blow never fell.

'Well, well, well, one of the halflings... Merry isn't it?'

Pippin looked up to see a familiar Rider of the Mark shaking his head, laughing, his golden curls bouncing around his shoulders.

'Eomer!'

'Pippin?! But I thought I had seen the last of you, that time when Mithrandir left with you for Gondor...'

'I haven't seen you for a good while either!' Pippin laughed.

'But what are you doing here?' Eomer grew serious, 'this is no place for halflings. Does Mithrandir know that you have come? I understand you were left in his charge...'

'Oh he knows I'm here, he allowed me to come. This isn't going to be the first battle I've been in...'

'You fought at the Pelennor!'

Pippin drew himself up proudly. 'Yes'

Eomer stared at the hobbit awhile, disbelievingly, and a little sadly.

'Your friend, Master Merry, he wanted to fight too...'

'And he did. He got wounded and that's why...'

'Merry got hurt!'

"Yes. But he's alright now.'

Pippin paused at the expression of the Rohirrim's face.

'I just don't understand it.' Eomer said softly, 'first Aragorn, the King, allows a Mordorian his company, and now Mithrandir thinks it's alright to drag a halfling into this war.'

'Hey wait! Gandalf hasn't dragged me into anything; I want to fight! And... what did you say about Aragorn?'

'Oh didn't you hear? Gossip's spread; he's looking after some sick Mordorian lass in his tent. Thinks it's important...'


	6. Buried Guilt

**Note:** Right, this story should give you all the background info you need to know, thank you for taking the time to review **Lykairo **and **Alce-Eruantale**. For you this chappie is dedicated.

* * *

_Chapter 6_

The Shadow had been growing. The Dark Lord was gathering all evil to him. No one could long resist the call...

_A line of prisoners trudged wearily to the chorus of the whips of their captors. The Dúnedain were a people long hunted for by the servants of the Black Land. The heirs of Isildur were among those of that line. Warriors in hiding, they were the Rangers keeping the peace in northern lands and fighting Mordorians down south when need arose. Driven out of hiding, a small band of those secret, wandering people had been taken as slaves by orcs and now they were headed for Mordor, which would be their new home, and prison._

_A little girl struggled to escape from the ropes that bound her wrists tightly together, from the cruel knots that bit deeply into her flesh. From behind her, orcs were laughing at her feeble efforts. One of them, brandishing a whip, moved in closer. The girl, suddenly understanding the orc's cruel intent, stopped struggling and began to whimper, tears welling up in her eyes._

_'Leave her alone!'_

_Behind the girl, stood another, tall with long black hair. Mornaundumë glowered at the orc with bloodshot eyes._

_'If you touch my sister again, I'll...'_

_Mornaundumë fell to her knees suddenly as the whip lashed out on her. Raising an arm to protect her face, Mornaundumë grimaced as blood began to drip down her back where red cuts were being re-opened by the stinging blows. And with every excruciatingly painful blow, her rage was building. Her temper rising, so that she could hear it pounding in her blood, through her veins. Let me kill them, let me kill them, her blood sang, if I had that whip now, oh how I would make them scream... Mornaundumë rejoiced in her anger, she knew it made her strong._

_'29!' The orc screeched as the last crack of the whip on Mornaundum's back echoed in the prisoners' ears, 'and let that be a warning to any other of you foolish enough to question who is in charge here!'_

_Mornaundumë, wiping the blood from her mouth, slowly stood back up again. As the orcs went on down the line, clamouring to get the marching pace going again, she forced a grin and put her arm protectively around the little girl's shoulders.  
'They cannot rule forever', she whispered fondly into her sister's ear._

* * *

He sat alone beside his bed on which Mornaundumë lay quietly dreaming. Gandalf had left some time earlier, on his own mysterious business. Aragorn knew better than to ask questions. Dark circles were under the Elessar's eyes, but the Ranger was used to having little sleep, and Aragorn nevertheless felt it was his duty to watch over her, at least while she was still recovering from the Morgul-wound.

He stared deeply into the depths of the brightly burning candles, his mind wandering, but his thoughts always returning to Mornaundumë.

'You shouldn't be here you know,' he found himself saying to her, or maybe just to the darkness surrounding him. 'It's death to leave Mordor, especially now with Sauron calling all to him, gathering all his strength for the last war of this Age...'

He passed a hand through her black hair, pulling the tangled knots covering her face away.

'Who are you?' He said, suddenly quite fiercely.

Though the Mordorian lass remained infuriatingly quiet, Aragorn could see the corners of her lips rising in silent smile.

* * *

_Somehow the whip just felt so right in her hand._

_'24! 25!'_

_The disobedient orc in front of her was learning his lesson the hard way. The cracks of the whip reverberated around the chamber. Behind Mornaundumë, an overseer stood by, a piece of wood in his hand, scratching out numbers and ticking off names. Beside him, a long line of unfortunates stood by queuing up, awaiting their punishments._

_'28! 29! 30!'_

_'No, stop! That's enough for him. 29 for challenging a senior officer.'  
'Yes, but...'_

_'I said that's enough!'_

_The man shot the girl a warning glance. Mornaundumë let the whip droop dejectedly. It's because I'm the new one, the new recruit, he doesn't think I'm good enough for this, she thought bitterly. She glanced up at him, busy writing something on a separate piece of wood. No doubt commenting all about her. It all comes down to that again doesn't it, she thought angrily, just because I'm a woman he's bound to think I'm not up to the task, they all think that. I'll show them... The orc who had most recently suffered was crawling pitifully away. Obviously not quick enough for she kicked him roughly out into the exit passageway. The man said nothing at this, but he immediately began scratching away more fiercely on the wood than before._

_A new prisoner was brought forward, a dirty little individual, this one. But not an orc; this was a human. Mornaundumë found herself twisting the whip's handle around in her fingers uneasily. She had never enjoyed flogging humans, or even elves for that matter, in quite the same way as she did orcs._

_'Silmyriën, 39 for speaking out against the laws of the land of Mordor and attempting to flee said land', the overseer droned, in a very bored manner._

_But Mornaundumë hardly caught the words. At the mention of the prisoner's name, a sudden frightening realisation had dawned upon her._

_It was her sister. After all these years..._

_After they had been separated, Mornaundumë had thought Silmyriën had surely perished under the backbreaking manual labour that had come out of their slavery. But the sister blood that coursed through Mornaundumë, giving her strength, had also given Silmyriën the same strength to survive Mordor. It had given her courage and also an inherited rebellious streak. One that now, it seemed, got her into trouble with the rulers of the land and served up a punishment no less horrific than to be whipped, by Mornaundumë herself..._

_'Traitor.' Silmyriën whispered as she lowered her head to receive the blows._

_'No,' Mornaundumë whispered back, 'I'm not...I won't... I can't hurt you...';_

_'You may begin the punishment,' the man said helpfully._

_Mornaundumë gazed blankly at him, as if she hadn't heard._

_'Go ahead,' Silmyriën hissed scornfully, 'you better not displease your masters now, that won't get you far in this black land, believe me.'_

_'You want me to?!' Mornaundumë asked appalled._

_'Why not? However hard you beat me it is nothing compared to the torment in knowing that you defected willingly in the end. You betrayed us all. You fool!';_

_A fool. Mornaundumë gripped the whip's handle tightly. A fool? Her temper flared dangerously deep within her, unstoppable, inescapable. I'm not up to the task. They all think that. I'll show them..._

_'Oh, my brave little sister...'_

_She raised the whip, and as the shadow fell over Silmyriën, despite all her boldness that came from surviving in Mordor for so long, she could hardly suppress the screams._

* * *

Back in the Elessar's tent, Mornaundumë woke all at once. 

'Silmyriën I'm sorry!'

Aragorn pulled the pipe out of his mouth as he leapt to his feet.

'Oh Silmyriën I...I didn't mean to hurt you...' Mornaundumë screamed. Her whole being trembled as the buried guilt dug deep into her soul, tormenting her. 'I wouldn't hurt you like that!'

Aragorn, though he had indeed been alarmed at her sudden awakening, kept his surprise masked. Taking the arms of the thrashing Mordorian gently but firmly in his hands, he hummed soothingly to her and lowered her back onto the bed.

'I couldn't hurt...' the sentence died on Mornaundum's lips. His music was calming to her ears. She fell back on the bed, at once at peace.

Aragorn smiled.

'You're safe' he reassured her.

Mornaundumë gazed at him, unblinking. His face before her was one she recognised, like a beacon of light in the omnipresent darkness. He was a truth she could cling to. Mornaundumë closed her eyes as her mind raced, trying to remember the exact events that had led to this moment.

She was no longer in Mordor. A strange joy coursed through her, one she wasn't exactly sure she should be feeling. She had fled her home, to what purpose? Almost impulsively she felt her hand move to her shoulder...

'The poison of the Morgul blade was treated to before it could prove fatal,' Aragorn spoke for the both of them. He put a hand over hers, which stayed over the scar on her shoulder, 'you have been healed.'

Again Mornaundumë gazed at him, this time smiling gratefully. Of course, he was the man that had sworn to protect her. She sighed. What had she ever done to deserve such kindness?

She moved upright into a sitting position. Now that she was awake, Mornaundumë wasn't going to lie idle. She was going to have to be alert and careful. She was amidst the Enemy now, she remembered. The kind man was only one of the thousands. But the strength was returning in her arm...She glanced round the tent, taking in the surroundings, familiarising herself with the place, trying to see if she could only find...

'If you'll looking for your sword, I'm sorry but it's had to be confiscated, along with the knives as well for the time being.'

Mornaundumë looked sharply at Aragorn, at once ready to punch him for his presumption, before she remembered where she was, her current situation. Foolish...that would have been foolish... She clenched her fists tightly. She was going to have to mind her manners, remember her place. But for one so used to giving orders, it was going to take some time getting used to...

'You are headed for the gates of Mordor?' Mornaundumë asked as casually as she could.

'To attempt to parley with the Lord of the Black Land, yes', Aragorn replied in the same offhandedly way, 'if there is any way to prevent any more bloodshed, I would gladly take it.'

'Mordor does not barter words with the Enemy!' Mornaundumë suddenly shouted out, before she could stop herself.

There followed a dreadful silence. Mornaundumë could feel his eyes staring at her downcast face but she made no effort to retract or elaborate on what she had just said. Eventually, and quite calmly Aragorn replied.

'We can but try. I only hope that...'

But at that moment, a Rohirrim burst through the tent flap, gasping for breath. A hand lay at the hilt of his sword.

'My men heard the screaming, and they called for me to see you, to ask if everything's...

'All right Eomer', Aragorn waved the sword away.

'My lord,' Eomer bowed, and then his gaze turned to stare intently at Mornaundumë who sat on the King's bed watching him.

'So the gossip was true...' he whispered under his breath.

Mornaundumë blinked in surprise. Not so much from the new man's apparent curiosity at her, but more at what he had just called Aragorn.

'My lord?!' She spoke without realising.

'The King,' Eomer corrected her.

Mornaundumë gasped, and, with conflicting interests, turned to gaze at Aragorn again with a new wonder. Looking from the Elessar to the Mordorian, Eomer didn't know whether it wise to draw his sword again. Then suddenly he laughed, shaking his head.

'Permit me to say this Aragorn, but half of my men outside seemed to think that the Mordorian was a threat. That 'he' would only cause trouble for you, and for all of us. I honestly didn't know what to think. But I can see now I won't be having to fear for your life, at least.'

And, still laughing, Eomer took his leave of the two. As he exited the tent, Mornaundumë caught a fleeting glance of another face, peeking into the tent. A smaller face, with brown curls tucked behind pointed ears. Mornaundumë had one moment in which to recognise the creature before the tent flap closed, blocking her view. But she knew what she had seen. A hobbit. How interesting...

'We travel at dawn', the King said once they were alone again, 'that'll be in a few hours time, but for now I need to get some sleep.' Moments later, he had closed his eyes and was sleeping where he sat, in a chair beside the bed.

Such trust, Mornaundumë thought wryly.


	7. Internal Conflict

I haven't written for so long, I feel ashamed. I hope this chapter makes up for the long wait, and I'll be writing some more over half term holidays. PLEASE REVIEW, it's always nice to hear readers' comments, positive or otherwise. Many thanks.

* * *

_Chapter 7_

'But did she see naught of you boy?'

Gimli had Pippin by the shoulders, and was shaking him rather roughly, trying to get the truth out of him. Beside the dwarf, Legolas had his arms crossed, a concerned frown wrinkling his otherwise ever-youthful forehead. Pippin answered Gimli in the same way he had numerous times before.

'I don't know! Besides, I barely got a glimpse of her myself. She wouldn't have had enough time to see me...'

'I wouldn't be so sure...' Legolas muttered, 'not a lot misses the eyes of a Mordorian, and they're a slippery opponent indeed.' His frown deepened, as he began to pace up and down thoughtfully as Gimli turned to Pippin once more.

'Whatever was the case; you're to be staying with us from now on, where we can keep an eye on you. ...'

For the hundredth time Pippin rolled his eyes.

'I don't need babysitting! And anyway, I'm in no danger here. Surrounded by the soldiers and the Fellowship...'

From behind him Legolas ceased his pacing, turning swiftly round, he grabbed the hobbit's arm. His words were stern and yet desperate.

'Safe?'

His eyes pleaded with the hobbit to understand.

'Mordor is out right now at this time especially seeking hobbits. Any hobbit they come across, they'll hunt down until caught. They'll drag that hobbit back forcibly into Mordor, and they... they do unimaginable things to their prisoners.'

Pippin gulped, the elf had got his attention. He tried to avert his eyes away, eventually ending up staring down at his feet. Legolas paused at the frightened halfling's face. Instantly his voice softened.

'Now... Aragorn has allowed such a person, into our midst. I do not doubt he means with good intentions, and while Gimli and I respect our friend's decisions...' the elf sighed deeply, 'we cannot help but question his one of the Mordorian. She is but a stranger to us. We do not know whether she comes defenceless into our hands!'

Pippin raised his head slowly. Taking a deep breath he said solemnly

'I promise I won't ever try and see the Mordorian lass again.'

Gimli bumbled over. 'Well-said laddie.'

Legolas smiled and glanced up to see the sun struggling to rise over the black horizon.

'The sun rises to a black dawn. We shall be on the move again soon', he said, rather unnecessarily. Pippin peered round the tall elf's cloak.

'I wonder if Merry is watching the same sunrise... quietly alone somewhere in the Houses of Healing...' he mumbled softly.

Behind him, Gimli was strapping on all his various axes and daggers to his back with a meticulous care. Legolas himself walked away towards the Rohirrim party to find his horse among the others. Pippin was once again alone, a single hobbit amid the moving mass of Big Folk.

* * *

Mornaundumë woke before Aragorn did.

As vision swam into view and feelings of consciousness returned to her limbs, her hand went straight to her shoulder. It had been bandaged up, she realised, as her fingers touched the soft linen. He must have done it, last night when he had healed her. She turned her head in his direction.

Aragorn slept soundly in his chair beside her, legs crossed, head leaning to one side in deep sleep. Mornaundumë found herself smiling at the scene. It felt somehow... quite pleasant, how this man had taken it upon himself to watch over her, care for her... an extreme contradiction to men, as Mornaundumë knew of them.

Mornaundumë remembered exactly how it was usually with men. She had been in the presence and intimate company of many men in the service of Mordor, in the beginning when she was still a slave. They had all gotten their own pleasure from her, while she had been left feeling as though the very fabric of her soul was being ripped apart. Oh yes, Mornaundumë had thought she knew men inside out.

Except this man had been different.

Mornaundumë frowned. _Why _was he different?

Watching the sleeping form with utmost scrutiny, she cautiously pulled back the warg-fur blankets on the bed, her bare feet silently stepping onto the floor. The man's breathing remained even. He had not heard her get up.

Ever so slowly she crept across the rug strewn carpet floor of the tent, never once taking her eyes off the Elesser. Stealth had ever been one of her most handy skills. Upon her way to gaining power and rank in Mordor, Mornaundumë had at times, played the spy on vital scouting missions. She knew how to slip past Gondorian watchmen without being seen or heard.

Cautiously, she crept closer to the sleeping man, drinking in every single detail of him, every part that made Aragorn who he was. She noticed the crisp freshness of his fine Elessar clothes contrast the rugged appearance of his worn face, the way in which he sat close to the bed Mornaundumë had slept on and yet not so close to have unnerved or intimidated her with his presence.

_He must be new to this position_, Mornaundumë deduced, _inexperienced with his newfound power._ She smiled, relishing the opportunities to exploit. _He's probably never thought one unkind thought or devised one ruthlessly cunning plan in his life. Even with the position he has now he wouldn't abuse or manipulate his subjects. Underneath all this, he is just the simple plain and compassionate man that had the heart to care for one of his enemies._

Mornaundumë sneered silently. _Weak fool,_ her mind told her. She had had enough of him, learnt all there was to know. Turning her head towards the tent flap, her thoughts raced onto the other things she had learnt.

The hobbit. Another of the little brat spies the Enemy had been so fond of using lately. Mornaundumë would be getting her hands on him sooner or later. And then she would take him back to Mordor for the proper interrogation, and then...

Mornaundumë paused. Going back to Mordor, going back to her old kind of life...

Some place, some tiny place in her soul cried out then, in protest and hurt, and suddenly Mornaundumë's instinctive Mordorian train of thought was ground to a painful and unexpected halt.

Abruptly, and with an awful clarity to her black mind and heart, Mornaundumë realised that part of her had turned traitor on her, was actually wanting to stay with the Enemy and become one among them.

Mornaundumë's eyes closed, as fiercely she tried to repulse the light, the traitorous thoughts from infecting her mind any further. The internal conflict raged violently within her trembling frame, and without realising it, Mornaundumë's knees were buckling beneath her and she was slipping slowly to the floor.

Her heart was a roar of confused voices each crying out, begging to save her soul, each certain they were on the right side. Mornaundumë grimaced, unsure and so insecure of herself. Gradually her mind was shutting down, unable to take the immense pressure it was under.

Just before she felt unconsciousness take her, Mornaundumë was aware of strong arms lifting her up gently, carrying her away. It was he, come to rescue her again.

'Going somewhere, my dear? If you're going to attempt to escape, you're going to need your strength. Sleep, be at peace.'

Listening to his calm, honest voice, Mornaundumë felt like laughing and crying at the same time.


	8. It can't wait

Hello people, finally an update. The truth of my long absence was really that life caught up with me, and my lotr craze faded. But when I reread the story I couldnt just abandon it so here's a bit more.

I hope what happens in this chapter isnt thought of as inappropriate to the character and just give me a shout if the story starts to stink of a Mary Sue thingy!

* * *

_Chapter 8_

Mornaundumë slept and dreamt strange dreams.

A silver sword, engraved with words of some ancient elvish speech, lay glittering in her hand, a weapon so beautiful and pure and one so obviously crafted by one of her enemies. Yet Mornaundumë couldn't help but be fascinated by it, how it shone a light so pure, how it lay so perfectly obedient in her hand…

Images flickered in and out of focus, and next Mornaundumë found herself face to face with a Nazgûl. Its eyes shone murderous red at her beneath those folds of black cloth. She tried to turn away from the nightmarish creature but her hands weighed her down at her sides, like blocks of lead…

And then she was running, constantly running, her legs a blur over dark grassy plains. From the East, a long arm was stretching out towards her and a hand, black with cruel claw-like fingers, was reaching out to grab her, claim her.

Panting with her efforts, Mornaundumë's heart beated laboriously and exhaustion seemed to almost overwhelm her. But she didn't stop running. For she knew that if she did, even for a moment, then the hand would enclose around her, suffocate her, and she was terrified, so very terrified of that.

* * *

The camp was breaking up. The Rohirrim forward party had already left on ahead; scouts on their horses cantered forwards deducing the best possible route for the Host to take.

Gondorians had immediately set to work taking down tents and dousing fires, preparing themselves for the long march ahead. Aragorn worked as one among his men, fending off any remarks that this was no work for the King of Gondor.

Secretly he welcomed the morning labour, not only in that it felt good to work through the daily routines that were natural to the former Ranger, but that it also gave him the chance to listen to his fellow men's' conversations.

Usually Aragorn despised eavesdropping of any form but since this morning's whispered topic of conversation included the Mordorian women, to the King's mind, it changed a lot of things in the way of how he would normally behave.

The woman certainly was causing a stir among the peoples of the West. His men seemed divided on what to think on it, Gondorians being the most passionate speakers, both for, and with some hurt Aragorn noticed, against their King on his decision of taking her in.

Aragorn had that morning put Mornaundumë in a place where she was least likely to cause trouble. He had smuggled her into the back of one of the wagons. The poor girl since falling into her strange unbidden sleep had begun muttering strange things in the dark, sometimes it seemed to herself, but more often than not her dreaming words were directed to other unseen beings.

It pained Aragorn to the soul, for reasons he dared not delve into too deeply.

Folding the tent canvas in his hands, he walked round to the back of the loading wagon and piled the sheets on top of the towering stacks. Almost time to move out, he thought idly, though his mind would not stay long on any thought except one.

Walking back to the men he had just worked with, he called them all to return to their horses and saddle up for the trek ahead. He himself turned to find Brego but then paused, in indecision. No, he decided. No, he couldn't wait. Especially after hearing some of the accusations being made against her, and… himself.

Aragorn, his mind made up, looked about quickly, trying to find a suitable person. Noticing a broad shouldered, dark haired lad of about eighteen summers passing by with his horse he pulled the boy over, whispering his intentions quickly.

It was a rash action, Aragorn thought, as the boy left on Brego with the King's banner and breastplate armour and cloak, and it wouldn't fool Eomer, Gandalf, Gimli or Legolas riding at the front of the column. They would know he was up to something but at least the majority of the Host would have a visible King's figure to follow deeper into the shadow of Mordor. Strider would just have to hope his friends would forgive him and his Ranger tricks.

Now free of his kingly finery, he proceeded to the wagon where the Mordorian lass had been hidden. Hiding himself in the shadows, he clambered aboard the back of the wagon just before the canvas coverings were pulled down and the wagon shuddered as the horse pulling it started to move.


	9. Battle!

An update! How suprising for me, I confess I really thought, a few months after the author's note, I was going to abandon this. However rereading it today when I was off sick from school made me realise I MUST finish this story! Or at least write the next few interesting chapters (I still have my storyplan somewhere.)

Anyway I hope I still have some readers, I am very sorry for the stupidly annoying wait, and I 've decided to dedicate this chapter (oo-er!) to the last two reviewers **Godrules** and **Ainariella** for posting me a review and not giving up hope on me! (at least I think you didn't...) This is for you, enjoy!

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_Chapter 9_

As the morning wore on into dusty afternoon, Pippin concluded absently that the day's march had been as long and dull the rest. Little had happened at all, apart from Gandalf's unexpected sudden return in the early morning as the rest of the men had saddled up for the day's journeying, meaning that Pippin had instead shared a horse with Eomer. The Rohan heir to the throne had been more than willing; he had found the hobbit to be full of information regarding the War of the Ring that he had picked up from Mithrandir and such others. All throughout the morning, Eomer had questioned the hobbit unrelentlessly, and Pippin, seeing as he had little else to do, had given the man all the answers he wanted.

Although Pippin remembered vacantly, it had been strange the way Legolas and Gimli had been unusually quiet towards Aragorn all day. Almost as strange as the way Aragorn had not responded to either of his two companions himself. Eomer, if he had noticed something, seemed not to comment on the situation.

Pippin sighed. It was obvious really. It was the tension that was keeping his friends silent. Tension of the Battle that was looming closer and closer with every step they took towards the Black Land.

Shifting slightly in the saddle to find a more comfortable position, Pippin's head snapped up as a sudden scream broke his dazed reverie.

From the head of the column the unusually quiet Aragorn had held up a hand and the whole party of soldiers had halted. A hush fell over the troops and an uneasy threatening silence descended. Among the peoples Pippin was not alone in frantically turning his head from side to side, searching for the cause of the chilling disturbance. Caught between two mountainous ridges from either side with only one road behind and one ahead, leading straight to the Black Gate, this was an ideal place for the Enemy to mount an ambush. Legolas' elf eyes seemed to almost shine in the dim light as his neck swivelled from side to side, seeking in the darkness for unfriendly foes.

The scream came again, this time nearer, and the hobbit trembled, reacting violently to the terribly familiar sound. Horses began to skitter nervously and the men started muttering anxiously, the murmur of the dreaded creatures passing like wildfire among the ranks, _Nazgûl_…

Legolas picked up his bow swiftly, stringing an arrow and unleashing it in one fluid movement. The arrow shaft hummed through the quiet air, straight up into the darkness of one of the rocky crevices on the left cliff face. The thud of the arrow as it hit orc neck, and the gurgle of spitted black blood issuing from the fatal wound as the orc spy fell from his place on the cliff to land broken on the ground below confirmed the Host's worst fears.

A ringing sound filled the air as all soldiers pulled their swords from their sheaths, or else drew their bows from their backs, already notching arrows into place. The sound of hoof beats echoed noisily from the dark and narrow road ahead and all eyes trained in that direction. From the gloom a Rohirrim scout emerged, black-feathered arrows sticking out of his thighs and shoulders, his eyes wide enough to see the whites.

'Ambush! Orc archers… endless infantry… Mountain trolls ahead!' The man shouted hoarsely, 'a great number, there is no way around them!'

The screech from the skies accompanied his words, harsher, louder than ever before. Pippin wailed, clapping his hands to his ears. Men shuddered likewise and sudden panic seized some of them, as they began to break ranks, turning their horses around back the way they'd come desperately. From his place near the front Gandalf's brow deepened as he stared at the still unmoving silent Aragorn at the front, who refused to do anything. Legolas too looked deeply concerned, though his gaze searched elsewhere.

'Stand your ground!' A deep, authoritative voice cried out suddenly. 'Stand your ground!'

Gandalf wheeled Shadowfax around in the direction of the voice as hundreds of frightened eyes did the same. For there, charging unexplainably from the back of the column, all the way up to the front rode the King, his embroided cloak the only bit of finery on his person, his hair familiarly matted, yet wild and free.

More and more the Ranger than the Elessar, but Aragorn's sudden bizarre appearance seemed rather to give a strange heart back to the men as he rode past them, fierce determination on his features. Lines reformed almost subconsciously as the Elessar raced along the entire length of his army. Reaching the front and sweeping the borrowed horse around to face his men, Aragorn drew Anduril free of its scabbard and held it aloft in his hand, the fierce look in his eyes controlling all attention.

'My countrymen! My brothers from afar!' He shouted again, his commanding voice rivalling the Nazgûls' screams from above, '…what is this fear you have? Have we not already faced this shadow and banished it? Have we not looked this death in the eye and broke it upon itself?'

A loud cheer rose from the throats of the assembled men, cries of agreement and loyalty. Gandalf smiled a strange knowing smile. Aragorn grinned fiercely, turning round and pointing his sword forwards. Slowly, but then picking up speed, the Host marched steadily onward into the darkness. They had not gone far before their Enemy could clearly be seen, coming closer; six large mountain trolls and scores upon scores of mountain dwelling orcs, climbing and scrambling over the rocks to greet them.

Pippin, still trembling, was strongly reminded of the bulbous eyed, insect-like orc kind that the Fellowship had faced in the mines of Moria. On the horse to his right Gimli seemed to be thinking along the same lines; a number of axes were spinning about in his hands and an excited glint was in his eye. Pippin thought he heard him make a comment about some sort of game to Legolas in front of him and thought he saw the elf grin strangely back at the dwarf, but in the gathering darkness, he couldn't be sure. Gripping his little noldorin sword tightly he stared despairingly at the monsters coming towards him, hardly aware of the comforting hand the concerned Eomer laid for a moment on his shoulder.

Black arrows whistled out of the darkness abruptly. Thick and fast, falling upon the ranks of the Host and claiming lives, as cries were cut short and bodies thudded on the ground.

Pippin heard Strider yelling for their archers, watching as Legolas notched another arrow to his bow, and saw the thicket of retaliating arrows fly and hit far more wailing orcs off the rock shelves on either side of the valley.

He saw the orc archers retreating, drawing their swords and scrambling down the cliff faces to join the infantry on the ground. There were mere metres between the two forces now.

The cavalry at the front and amongst the Host broke into a gallop to close the gap. Pippin could hear Eomer yelling from behind him as their horse plunged into the black mass of orcs around them. Too scared or, perhaps, too exhilarated to do anything else, the little hobbit joined in.

All Pippin could remember next was the hideous claustrophobia of the orcs all around them and the repeated action of driving his sword into any orc flesh he reached, wrenching it out again and plunging the dripping blade into the next orc hide he saw. At times he heard Eomer almost laughing and thought he heard distantly Gimli roaring obscene numbers to his elf friend, the dwarf's axe a blur as he hewed down the mass of orcs around him; he had already dismounted from his horse.

The stench of blood grew, so strong in his nostrils, filling Pippin with a deep revulsion while simultaneously compelling him to continue to lash out, to spill more death and pain, until it was all over. Somewhere Gandalf's staff was glowing, and the wizard was chanting some strange elvish words Pippin didn't understand. There was a loud explosion somewhere close by and Pippin saw a large number of orcs falling down dead. Renewed by the deaths of so many of the Enemy, the hobbit attacked ever more vigorously, stabbing at the yellow eyes of the orc closest to him. Eomer's sword flashed expertly everywhere, cleaving the heads and limbs off multiple foes.

The blow came most unexpectedly.

Pippin, distracted by an orc who had grabbed his foot, blanched in shock as the horse, Eomer and himself were lifted from the air at the successful hit from an overhead mountain troll's club.

Flying for several metres, the hobbit landed painfully on his back while Eomer landed on top of him, his eyes closed, blood trickling from a wound on his head. The horse, whose spine had already been broken from the troll's club, had landed elsewhere with a sick crack. Trapped on the ground, Pippin groaned quietly, vainly trying to push the unconscious man off of him. But he was too weak. Too tired and too weak. The hobbit slumped, tears now leaking from his eyes.

Around him, the battle raged on, but orcs and allies alike were oblivious to the hobbit's plight. In any case, to all appearances Eomer and Pippin looked just like a small pile of the many dead bodies littered about the valley floor.

Squirming underneath the Rohan Lord's dead weight on top of him, Pippin made one last attempt to free himself before exhaustion claimed him. Grabbing anything his free hand could reach to pull him out from under Eomer, he drew back violently as cold hands suddenly closed themselves around his upper arm. His eyes, blinded by damp tears, couldn't make out the identity of the dark figure that was hauling him up from under the unconscious Rohan.

He was hardly back on his feet, his lips opening to exclaim grateful thanks before the same helpful person had taken his drawn sword and hit the back of the hobbit's head with its hilt.

Falling into uneasy unconsciousness, Pippin was aware of being held under the arm of a tall, long dark-haired soldier and hearing a random goblin's screech, Gandalf's triumphant yell and Aragorn's call of victory before darkness took him and he fell into dreams filled of Mordor, and unbearable torture.

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Cliffhanger? Don't worry, the next update will come soon, and it'll be a flashback of what went on during the time Aragorn was with Mornaundume...

Btw thanks for any reviews


	10. Uncomfort

WOW! An UPDATE!

Thanks for that review out of nowhere **Randomisation,** it was really appreciated. Therefore this chappie's dedicated to you, and it's a long one!

There's trouble ahead in the life of the Mordorian Lass, and she isnt half going to make Aragorn's life difficult! Enjoy, and review!

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Chapter 10

_5 hours earlier…_

Mornaundumë had finally awoken from her tormented dreams at the feel of his hand on her forehead.

Shivering, she sat up, knocking his hand off her sweat-strewn face. Wide-eyed she gazed around this place he had put her, her body swaying from side to side in motion to the slightly rocking wagon.

Her mind, confused and irrational as it was at the moment, hadn't had the time to make sense of her current situation before her mouth had opened to screech all the foulest curses she had learned in the black speech.

However the man's sudden placement of his hand over her mouth caused the cries to be silenced before they left her mouth.

Gazing defiantly at him, she had nevertheless allowed him to push her back down gently onto her back and whisper gruffly that he would explain everything to her if she would first hold her tongue. The Mordorian found the anxiety in his voice amusing, and it was an interesting situation to be in, for sure. He was still protecting her then… how very touching...

…And strange how a part of her sneered at the man's compassion, while another part seemed to melt away at the experiencing of the pure concern he had for her.

'There now… this isn't how I would have liked us to talk…' the man was saying, his fingers busy with something on her left shoulder.

Mornaundumë looked across to see that he was carefully unfolding the bandages that covered the Morgul wound that he had healed a week, a day or perhaps a few hours ago, she couldn't remember exactly. To Mornaundumë's befuddled mind, everything since being held by the Ringwraith, mocked and then finally stabbed had become a blur. It was all so infuriating. Closing her eyes, Mornaundumë focused firmly on trying to remember everything she knew. All the facts she had learned from her waking moments in between the fever and then the equally as tormenting strange ideas and nightmares that she had recently been plagued with.

She remembered being visited by various peoples. There had been this man, of course, and then… then there had been that other filthy golden-haired Rohan who had came in to see her, who had laughed at her in her weakness, and he had been called…

Eomer. Her numb mind unexpectedly threw the name up from her feverish dreams. Mornaundumë growled. No one laughed at her expense…

There had been another though… yes, the little one she had seen for only a second but had forced herself to remember… the curly-haired hobbit brat. No name had been given to it in her presence, but Mornaundumë could remember its face well enough. And that was all she would need to know when the time came to find it and take it with her…

'You seem fit enough without the need of bandages now…' the dark-haired man was saying beside her, breaking into her thoughts.

Watching bemusedly, she saw he had unwound the last of the slightly dirty cream linen from around her shoulder, folding them away into a pocket on his person. On her shoulder only a faint silver mark remained of where the Morgul blade had pierced her white flesh days before. Mornaundumë stared at him, silently contemplating for a moment, and then suddenly made a move to stand up.

This time, as she sat up, he made no attempt to push her back down. Mornaundumë dispelled the breath she realised she had been holding, and her dark eyes narrowed dangerously.

''But now, I expect, I am to be held a prisoner…' she said quietly, her anger making her voice escape through her gritted teeth like a hiss. 'To be shown publicly as a humiliated figure before my people…'

Her eyes betrayed her utter revulsion but her voice spoke with utter acceptance of her designated status. Steadily and wearily deceiving.

The man reacted visibly, swiftly taking her by the shoulders, his eyes serious and soulful and full of concern as he spoke solemnly to her.

'I assure you, I am not here as your imprisoner. I never have been. The thought itself is repulsive to me…'

The sentence tailing off, he withdrew his hands from her still frame and sat down beside her. One glance at the Mordorian's still suspicious eyes however, revealed that she still wasn't convinced. Aragorn sighed.

'As you lay in my care, I admit, you have had little choice on the matter of your surroundings and company. However, you are well enough now to make your own decision. Even if you were to flee back to the Dark Land… I will not hold you against your will.'

The sincerity of his words was beautiful. It actually caused Mornaundumë to raise an eyebrow. Never had anyone paid her this much courtesy and attention… Even before…

The Mordorian's black smile reached her lips. Suddenly a lot of opportunities had presented themselves. Mornaundumë thought for a moment carefully, before replying with an appropriate answer.

'The Black Land you speak of has been no home to me of late …' she whispered softly, enjoying the unhidden smile that momentarily softened the man's rugged features. '…why then would I flee back to it so freely? You have healed me, my Lord for a blow my allies dealt… and I am will stay with you, at least for a little while, indebted for the deed.'

Diplomatic hospitality. Her woman's charm had been infamous as to how far it had succeeded in taking her among the other higher-ranking officers in Mordor. It would be interesting how far it got her now among the lines of the Enemy.

The man, however, remained unresponsive.

'You will be welcome with me,' he replied after a moment, although now his eyes were downcast and lost in thought, 'but know that, understandably, not all my men have been as accepting as I…'

Mornaundumë snorted. She had understood that from the outset. Amused she saw the man's head rise in alarm and smirked, her eyes dancing meaningfully about their current location. The man, who swiftly caught her meaning, uttered a low quiet laugh.

'Do you have a name missy? Clearly you're no orc or some other foul creature of Sauron's. Surely you possess a name more becoming than one of the orcs … at least, one would have imagined?'

He raised his voice, along with an eyebrow, mimicking her earlier questioning glance.

Mornaundumë smiled and, surprising even herself, a genuine laugh burst from her lips before she regained control of herself.

'Are you suggesting… I call myself Shagrat? …Or anything similar?'

She laughed in all in a moment, her eyes sparkling in unrepressed mirth. However seconds later her face seemed to lose its glow, and her voice grew stronger.

'No. No, my name is Mornaundumë…'

At her words, she paused suddenly; the revelation of her name seeming to snuff out the brief warmth in her heart like fingers pinching out a candle. Inwardly she stiffened, her face growing more solemn and stiller by the second.

Her eyes grew harsher and crueller.

'… And I am the Commander of Minas Morgul, the Dead City of Mordor; I am the Roving Minion of that land, the Scourge of the wandering Gondorian, the Menace of Osgiliath…'

The cold yet fiery heat was racing through her blood again as she spoke her titles proudly, cruelly; as one spits out a precious truth long clung to and treasured when one has nothing else.

Dumbfounded silence met the Mordorian's sudden proclamation. Aragorn blinked. A long moment passed while he appeared to collect his thoughts. Mornaundumë seemed to be shaking, the heat of her earlier words visibly still affecting her. Aragorn was pained to see it. Slowly, hesitantly, he placed a hand on her shaking one.

Mornaundumë blinked, then shivered, losing all of her body tension in a moment. Her eyes drifted lazily onto Aragorn's face. For a moment their gazes locked and they silently contemplated each other. Then both withdrew, Mornaundumë to inspect her shoulder once more, and the Elessar to close his eyes, something unexpectedly clicking in his brain.

Softly Mornaundumë heard his voice moments later, as if it were invading her mind.

'Mornaundumë… this is not a Mordorian name…'

Aragorn's brow furrowed, his hands gripping Mornaundumë's old bandage tightly, twisting the fabric.

'Mornaundumë… Yes… yes, it is an old name, devised from the ancient Quenya letters of the elves… Such names were passed on from the elves to the Men of the North, to the Dúnedain, blessed humans with the elven gift of a long life…

Mornaundumë twitched visibly. Slowly her eyes were drawn back to Aragorn's concentrated downcast face, as if from a dream.

Aragorn's eyes were racing, moving from one corner of the wagon to the other, even as his mind raced behind them. Abruptly he stood up, pacing the enclosed space for a while. His gruff voice appeared to murmur names, snatches of foreign-sounding genealogy frantically as Mornaundumë watched him dreamily.

A minute passed and suddenly Aragorn stopped, his gaze locked on Mornaundumë even as she looked up at him. With a snarl of anger, he threw the stained piece of fabric to the floor.

'I knew it! I knew it! …There was more to you than I had dared believe! More to your face, your hair, than a mere human Mordorian minion! …More than I had hoped, than I had imagined…'

He clenched his fists, running one shakily over his brow, his eyes elsewhere again.

'Oh but I had heard… I had heard of this… of the eternal hunting, the taking of Dúnedain children in darkness, the weariness of their torture…'

His hands trembling, his shifting eyes locked onto Mornaundumë's quiet form again.

'…But never had I imagined Mordor to break one of their slaves so completely, to corrupt the mind of the innocent so far that they embraced their own demons with a strangled love and perverted loyalty…'

He looked down at Mornaundumë, his face twisted in an expression of deep anger, even as the beginnings of tears pricked his eyes.

'Oh what have they done? What damage have they inflicted on your soul?

…Mornaundumë… Even the name… even the name is afflicted with the darkness…'

Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut. Taking a long calming breath, he reached out, placing a strong hand on Mornaundumë's still shoulder.

'My dear… do you understand? Do you understand what has happened? What the Black Land has done, what it has taken from you?'

Mornaundumë's heart thumped wildly. Beneath his warm clenched hand, her body lay perfectly tense, yet unmoving. Listening to Aragorn's words her eyes fluttered shut and her frown melted away from her forehead as words from long forgotten dreams streamed into her conscious thought.

The sounds of voices, laughter, of light from days long past burst across her vision...

_She was walking through magical woods with a family that was her own around her. Silver leaves softened the rich earth beneath her bare feet and laughing elven women threaded yellow flowers into her dark hair…_

_Pale, beautiful sunlight streamed into_ _the glade, alighting the blissfully happy features of the five-year-old giggling as her father stoked the tip of her nose playfully…_

_Mornaundumë twisted her neck around, and there was Silmyriën beside her, holding her hand tightly and smiling up at her older sister… Mornaundumë felt joy sing in her heart._

_Then a shadow fell across her woodland home, and the elves had left. Mornaundumë felt her silk dress being pulled by agitated hands, and through the thunder she heard Silmyriën crying loudly and harsh shouts and thudding feet._

_And then there was screaming, endless screaming… and her back was stinging as her younger sister was crying and shouting with deep biting lines… as her vision turned blood red and her heart was pulled and pulled from her ribcage by a cold claw like hand, that took and took…_

'Ahhhhh- No!'

Mornaundumë shouted, in pain, in shock, even as a hand was again closed over her mouth, even as a long arm wrapped around her shaking frame, even as a gentle voice whispered into her ear and she was gently rocked into a soothing rhythm.

But Mornaundumë's repressed emotions were building up into a thunderstorm and she tolerated Aragorn's presence only for a minute, then she resisted.

One hand attached itself onto Aragorn's arm wrapped around her frame, as the other snaked around his back and gripped the back of his neck. With a cry, Mornaundumë ripped Aragorn's arm from her, pushing him face first onto the floor, tears streaming from her face as she held him there.

'Lies! It's all lies! Why? Why do you torment me so?'

Her body shook as another convulsion of grief tore through her, and Aragorn took the opportunity to twist his body round, his back now upon the floor rather than his chest. Conscious that any sudden movements might provoke the uncontrolled Mordorian into further frenzy, he instead lay passive, but gently took Mornaundumë's hand again in a way that had seemed to calm her before.

'It is the pain that comes from reconciling yourself with the past that torments you, nothing more,' Aragorn said softly, keeping his voice as calm and gentle as possible, considering the situation. 'The past and the truth of your heritage that you have so long been forced to reject and later fought to deny, and yet at last must come to accept…'

Aragorn stilled for a moment, the ironic impact of his own words affecting him visibly. Mornaundumë stiffened, but was quicker to recover, her face twisting into a curious expression, suggesting a mixture of pain and amusement.

The tears still falling from her face, she leant down, mere inches from Aragorn's concerned eyes.

'And you… you tell me to accept this truth even now when all is darkness? You think these… these words you have spoken can free me from my life? From what I have done?'

Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but Mornaundumë was shaking her head, suddenly a dangerous gleam in her eye. Her hands gripped his arms still tighter.

'No… I didn't think so. I cannot become what, perhaps, I could have been… what I was meant-'

Mornaundumë growled in sudden rage. In a flash of movement, she brought the heel of her palm hard to Aragorn's temple, the action only slightly abating the pain, the anger that flared and ripped across her chest.

The man beneath her groaned, his eyes rolling as he fell into a light unconsciousness. Mornaundumë, well familiarised to the situation took full opportunity of the brief moment to search his body for any article useful to her present need. As her hand brushed the handle of a dagger strapped to his waist, a cold Mordorian smile slowly spread itself across her face.

The Elessar, seconds later, came to with the cold press of metal against his throat. His eyes widened but he remained perfectly still, his eyes locking onto the backstabbing Mordorian's and narrowing.

'Why? After all I've done for you… you choose this?'

Mornaundumë smiled bitterly. 'I am a Mordorian.'

Aragorn's brow furrowed, and now true anger was alighting his features.

'Then I should have treated you like one the first moment you first stumbled into my path. I should have slain you that day. But instead I took you in… as if you were one of my own…As… as you are and still can be…'

Mornaundumë bit her lip, struggled with her emotions. Then she shrugged, pulling the iron-hard exterior she had grown to possess all her years in Mordor around her like a shield, protecting her from the man's words. She snarled at her conflicting feelings, forcing them away.

'Oh, I am deeply ashamed to hear you say that. How very foolish of me to have squandered your pity and offer of hospitality like this. They might have both come in very useful to me later…'

Aragorn grimaced. Mornaundumë lips twitched, but she did not smile. Beneath her lay a good man, a far better person than she could ever hope to be, and one did not overindulge in emotionally torturing them.

Keeping the pressure on the blade as constant as possible, she leant in again close to the Elessar's face. 'I am not going to kill you, my Lord, that would just be a waste and utter folly on my part, seeing as how I am currently surrounded by hundreds of your men. And besides, I would much rather see you as my prisoner and gift to the Dark Lord…'

Mornaundumë felt the pain in her chest couldn't get any worse in that moment, as she gazed down at the pure despair in the King's face.

'Why Mornaundumë? Why to _Him_…?'

Just then, a piercing sound rent the air outside the large wagon they were both been hiding in.

It was a sound that, once heard, was instantly recognisable to all who later heard it.

Mornaundumë shuddered involuntarily, a hand reaching for her shoulder. 'Nazgûl…'

Aragorn started, but Mornaundumë quickly turned her attentions back onto him.

'Don't move! Let your men fight. We will stay in here until the skirmish is over…'

Aragorn wriggled vainly. 'I must be with my men in battle… What if it is more than just a skirmish?'

'It won't be. Mordor does not fight in the valleys of the Ephel Dúath. The final battle, at the end of all things, will begin before the Black Gates of the Morannon. This is just an eager scouting force, mountain orcs with possibly a few trolls with them…'

Aragorn stilled, frowning. 'Why are you telling me this?'

Mornaundumë's eyes hardened. 'Because… Because I chose to tell you… it is irrelevant…'

'Mornaundumë…'

The Mordorian woman couldn't take it anymore. Drawing her hand back she brought the handle of the Elessar's dagger hard down upon his forehead, knocking him out.

She watched in a daze as Aragorn's features softened into serene blissful oblivion. Surely she felt her walls crumble again, as they had done as she had painfully relieved her past, and she found herself sobbing helplessly.

'I'm… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…'

Tenderly she stroked back that black wavy hair from his face. After a moment's pause, she pressed a sharp kiss to his cheek. Now Mornaundumë knew she must leave.

Rising swiftly she strapped the stolen dagger to her belt, grabbing a Gondorian cloak from a pile in the corner of the wagon.

She exited the wagon stealthily, quickly mingling herself with the panicking Host outside watching for the first signs of an ambush, the cloak's hood covering her face.

Mornaundumë's eyes roved over the mass of men, her eyes hunting for the quarry she sought.

Seconds later back in the wagon, Aragorn came to with a start, his hand rising of its own accord to his cheek. Last memories seemed fuzzy, impossible to recall. Then Aragorn heard the Nazgûl's cry again and in the next instant he was outside, racing to the front of the column of men.


End file.
